


five times dean writes about sam

by sweaterlou



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, M/M, dean being sad, pov of dean, v sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:44:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweaterlou/pseuds/sweaterlou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sam gets sick and dean writes about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five times dean writes about sam

**Author's Note:**

> ok sad angsty death fic where sam gets sick n dean writes to keep his mind off stuff. i wrote this bc i wanted to write something sad n kinda wincesty but theres nothing out right wincest ok!!! kudos n comments are def welcome
> 
> tumblr: hangonsherlock and dannyandross

Dear Diary,

It is unreasonable to call you a diary, or even a piece of paper, considering you are the half used napkin that came with my beer last night. It’s also unreasonable that my glass left you with a wide circle on your back. Sorry about that. 

It’s 1:30 in the morning and the moon is the biggest this month and I wish Sam would get out of bed to see it. He’s always loved the moon. I’ve always loved him watching it. 

He has the flu, I think. Cough and a low temperature, but the kid’s had more than a handful of broken bones so he can tough this out. He ate some fries from my plate at the diner, but that was it. Just sat there sipping water like some goddamn vegan. 

I have no idea why I am writing. I can’t sleep and everytime I close my eyes, Sam starts coughing. It’s loud and thundering like his personality, but I don’t enjoy it as much. I’m not worried. Not at all. Don’t even think I am. 

He’s asleep finally. His lungs sound sloushy with his sickness but at least he can get some sleep. Maybe I’ll try too. After a few beers. 

I don’t know what to put here so I’ll just put my name. I’m going to say ‘love’ like some goddamn pussy.

Dean. 

+

Dear Diary,

I’m back, but this time you’re an actual sheet of paper and Sam’s doing worse.

I wrote a month ago, and figured by now he’d be back up to his old self and we’d be up in Maine searching for Cas again. Instead, we are sitting in the hospital and the needles stuck in Sam’s arms prick me too. 

The Doc says it’s pneumonia and I know he got it because I made him stay outside in ten degrees while it was raining as I searched the old asylum in Montana. Sam says it’s not my fault, that he should have worn more layers. He says it through tired eyes and dried lips. I know it’s my fault. 

His chest breathes in and out deeply like he can not for the life of him get enough oxygen. I want to steal it from my lungs and feel easy as he breaths normal again. 

The hospital room chairs are a bitch to sleep in, but I do it. Have been doing it for eight days. My ass is sore and my back feels like it’s broken, but it’s worth it to see the relief on Sammy’s face when he wakes up to see me. 

I’m still not worried. I should be and I should be on my knees praying God to take away the pain but I know Sam inside and out. I know he can push through this. The Doc says there is a small bit of improvement, of course there is, that is my Sammy fighting for his life. 

I tell him iI love him more now, though. It calms him down when he can’t catch his breath or he gets even more needles driven into his blemished skin. I mean it when I say it. 

It’s getting late and Sam wants me to lay with him in his bed. The nurses don’t recommend it, but I know it helps him fall asleep. It’s nice to hold him and even if his breathing is sharp, it’s music to my ears.

This isn’t me praying, not at all. But if anyone out there could easy up my brother’s pain just a bit, just so he didn’t have to force smiles anymore, that would be wonderful.

Night, I guess.

Dean.

+

Dear Diary,

Last night, Sammy got worse.

They had to hook him up to an oxygen machine like an old man, and all I could was hold his hand and tell him he was okay. He’s okay. He’s okay. I’m not okay.

He sleeps for most of the day now. He’s only up for five hours throughout it all. Jenny, the head nurse, brings me food and watches over Sam when I take showers, so I’ll be there.. if anything goes wrong. 

God, it’s so hard to say that. Sam’s so strong and he acts like he’s getting better but he’s getting worse and my heart pulls every time he stops breathing for a full five seconds. He’s gone through so much in his short, short life, but this takes the crown. 

If the King of Hell can’t kill my Sammy, a bunch of liquid in his lungs won’t. 

Right?

Sammy just woke up and asked me what I was writing about. I didn’t lie. I told him I was writing about him. He smiled for real for the first time in weeks. The tears are still burning in my eyes.

My resolve is breaking and all I want is for him to be better. I want to be in the Impala, with music blaring and us singing along like we used to. I want greasy diner food and late night movie marathons. I want me and Sam happy again. 

So, here I am. You finally broke me down. You’ve got a handful of teary Dean Winchester in your hand sobbing out prayers to you while my brother sleeps in his bed. Give yourself a round of applause. 

You finally cracked me.

Fuck you.

Dean.

+

Dear Diary,

It’s December 24th, and I’m sure that Sam won’t make it to Christmas. 

He’s been sleeping since 6a.m. yesterday and his chest barely moves anymore. he wakes up for an hour and just listens to me talk with glazed over eyes. He hasn’t smiled in a few days. I wish I had taken pictures of it while it lasted. 

We took this one picture of us together. We were in Florida and the sky was just too beautiful for me to take out my phone and snap pictures. Sam had laughed and called me a girl, but his eyes were soft and I felt so alive for once. So I slung my arm around his shoulder and called out ‘cheese’ a second before taking the picture. In the picture, I looked like an idiot and Sam was looking at me like I was the most wonderful thing he ever saw. I look at it every hour now.

I’m sick of praying and I’m sick of this chair and I’m sick of crying everytime I look at sam. I’m sick and I wish I was as sick as Sam so I could go with him. 

Christmas in a hospital is not at all cheery, and it’s too hot and it feels like summer in this room, but I’m not moving until Sam stops. 

The Doc just came in with a worried look on his plastic face, so I’ve got to go.

Merry Christmas Sam.

Dean.

+

Dear Diary,

I was holding Sam’s hand and telling how much I loved him when he passed away last night. 

It was New Years Eve.

The Doc said Sam’s lungs had been just too weak to hold on anymore. I figured that because they had taken away the oxygen tank so Sam could go naturally. Naturally my ass. It wasn’t natural to sharply breath in air to stay alive.

He made it to midnight some how. He had been off extra oxygen for four hours, and he was just finally starting to gasp for air. Oh god, he was so pale. His brown eyes were tight with pain and I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t talk so I just held his hand and rubbed his fingers between mine like I used to do when he got scared. I could tell he was scared. Death is a scary thing. 

11:59 and he was so close, and all I could do was say ‘I love you Sammy’ over and over again. I kept kissing his knuckles and shushing him. I was so close to breaking myself. The staff outside counted down the seconds to the year I’d spend without my other half. I wished they would have stopped. Maybe me and Sam could of been stuck in 2013 forever. 

10, he took a gulping breath. I held his hand tighter.

9, he closed his eyes for the last time. I wish I could of.

8, 7, 6, he didn’t breath. Neither did I. 

5, he took his last breath and I wanted to breath it in me to keep him with me forever.

4, 3, 2 he went stiff and I couldn’t see his face through my tears.

1, he fell silent. I held his slack fingers between my own. 

0, I knew he was gone.

I stood up and pressed a kiss to his relaxed forehead. Telling him that I was there, that I would always be there. I let go of his hand.

The Doc came in and just looked between me and Sammy, oh god my Sammy. He stared at Sam.

“He knew you loved him.” was all the Doc said before he left. I wrote those five words on my forearm with the pen i wrote about Sam with. 

Sorry about the wet spots on the paper. It’s just hard thinking about him. 

I finally left the hospital this morning. They let me spend one last night with Sam. I didn’t keep my off him. All I wanted was for him to sit up and tell me this was all a prank and that he was ready to get on the road. 

I knew he wouldn’t.

I’m writing this sitting in the Impala and it’s too cold next to me. I’m going up to Maine to see if there is any trace of Cas anymore. Don’t worry about me trying to bring Sammy back. It was his last wish for me to just let him rest. 

I can’t write anymore. Not ever again. It’ll just make me think of the months spent in the hospital. So this is me saying goodbye to the words I wrote along the way and to Sammy.

To Sam Winchester; the only good thing in this goddamn world. You can finally rest easy after a life full of pain. You better meet me there with a few beers and the stories of the years spent without me when I get there too. Thank you, for everything. 

All this writing is meant for you, Sammy, please know that. 

I love you.

Love,

Dean.


End file.
